


The Ethics of Subjugation

by tredecaphobia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:05:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tredecaphobia/pseuds/tredecaphobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The younger nations didn’t always understand; when it came to certain issues, they would hold onto a conviction steadfastly and unwaveringly.Which was why it was especially difficult in defining the relationship he shared with Turkey to straightforward, well-meaning nations such as America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ethics of Subjugation

The younger nations didn’t always understand; when it came to certain issues, they would hold onto a conviction steadfastly and unwaveringly. What they believed to be right was unfailingly right. Which was not necessarily a bad thing (it shook the world up, at times), but for the older nations, like Heracles, it was the mental difference between an adult and a child. Which was why it was especially difficult in defining the relationship he shared with Turkey; he didn’t enjoy explaining it (anything involving Turkey gave him indigestion, he would say, but it was more flashbacks, and then ulcers), but to straightforward, well-meaning nations such as America, he found he couldn’t quite refuse. 

 

And so, on one particular summer afternoon, while the sun was beating down on them in an outdoor café, Heracles explained the more pertinent parts, and thought that intensity of light was exactly what it had been all those years ago, lying, choking, in Turkey’s bed. 

 

“I can’t believe he did all those things to you.” America stated flatly, a chunk of half-chewed hamburger lodged into the side of his mouth. With his large, soulful eyes, earnest expression, and rather ludicrous manner of eating, he reminded Greece more than a little of a bull calf. Heracles, who was currently enjoying immigration to America, and thus renewed bonds, smiled gently at this, and shifted positions ponderously, crossing his legs at the ankles. 

 

“It was… a long time ago… when the world… was a different place. It was common. To accept children… as lovers.” He sipped his coffee and watched America flinch at these words; the youth toyed nervously with his eating utensils, and seemed to force himself to swallow the food that had become an unpalatable lump in his throat. “It was a different culture…”

 

Alfred straightened, suddenly appearing more of a man than Heracles had been seeing before, his eyes steeling. “It’s still inexcusable! Cultural differences or not, you were just a little kid! Innocence is something that should be protected!” Greece regarded this outburst with mild shock and interest. When Greece finally spoke, it was with the sensation of Turkey’s hands on his ribs, guiding Greece, either picking him up from the battlefield as he choked on blood and gasped for an ounce of unhindered breath, or thrusting him down onto cool sheets (so dissonant, with the sun beating down, and Turkey’s mouth devouring his throat), and invoking unwilling reactions from him. 

 

“I… guess so. It’s not that… he sullied me at a young age, though… It’s… that he knew me as a person, a separate entity… conscious… with feelings… and he enjoyed… subjugating me.” A long silence ensued as the boy-nation sorted through the weighty information presented to him. And then, at length, he seemed to be able to produce something in response, looking up at the man who wore an inexplicable expression (though, really, had it been Arthur, or Francis, or even Antonio, they might have been able to recognize what it entailed, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, head back; it was the memory of complete subsumation), and tried to put into words what he was thinking.

 

“I think… I think I get what you’re saying. Mm.” He nodded once, firmly, and regarded Greece with clearer eyes. “Yeah. I think I do. It’s a good thing, though, that you don’t have to go through that any more. I mean,” he added, resuming his food-eating experience, his world returning to its regular scheduled programming “you have friends that would help you, now, if you were in a pinch like that again.”

 

Greece smiled at this, flattered, but knew that a nation as young as Alfred wouldn’t be able to understand. He leaned back in his seat, enjoying the sun beating freely down on him (with the sensation of Turkey, his brass body slick with beads of sweat, collecting in the places Greece knew so well now (in his jutting clavicle, the shallows of his hips) napping, with Greece cupped to his side, watching the sun beat down outside and presenting a reality thoroughly different from his own), and thought it would be good if he never did.


End file.
